Play Something For Me, Calliope
by camihere
Summary: AU. When 17 years-old Callie Torres is sentenced community service at a local elderly home, she meets one Arizona Robbins' very German grandfather-but more than that, a little something about life, love and all that jazz.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Callie—Calliope Torres—twisted her nose when entering the small, orange building with the cracked sidewalk near the corner of Rose and President Kennedy street. The smell of naphthalene with cheap soap filled her nostrils the moment she stepped foot into the ugly place. It looked depressing and extremely old for her-even older than the ages of the residents combined.

Pop!—the girl at the front desk popped a bubblegum and Callie couldn't help but smirk at the irony of the cliché in front of her: a bored looking girl popping gum, flipping through a magazine and talking on the cell phone with someone.

"—No, idiot, it's gotta be on Tuesday," the girl said on the device. Her tone sounded dumb like the girls she made fun of in school. "Jenna has the nights off on Tuesdays."

Callie loudly sighed, rudely interrupting the conversation. "Hey," she said. The place felt extremely hot for the time of the year and Callie felt sweat start to form under her boobs from the long walk. She shifted on her feet. The girl on the other side of the desk rolled her eyes after giving her a small glance.

"Hey, can you call me back in like 5?" She said to the phone. "Yeah, today's meet and greet for the new..." She eyed Callie judgingly. "Helpers." Her tone was superior and Callie immediately knew why. She hung up and fake smiled. "Hi, can I help you?"

Instead of replying, Callie simply kept her neutral expression and placed a sheet of paper on the counter.

"Welcome to Mayfield Home for the Elderly," she said unenthusiastically after stamping the paper. "Ms. Kent will be your supervisor. Go down the hall and knock on the third door to the left. She'll sign your stamp and give you further directions."

Without a reply, Callie retrieved the sheet and followed the hall the girl had pointed. "Junkies..." she heard the girl mumble under her breath, but didn't pay any attention. She was used to it; people constantly judged her by her appearances as she was mostly found in thorn jeans, black shirt and leather jacket. It wasn't like her hair helped, either: it was always messy and as much as she tried, she just couldn't find a comfortable way to keep it without it looking weird or feeling wrong, so she usually just combed it after shower and let it dry on its own. However, as much as she hated the fact that everyone judged her on her looks, she knew that in this particular situation she had to be prepared to be judged not only by them, but also by the fact that she was practicing sentenced community service. She didn't really blame people for judging her on that.

"Come in," a voice called from the other side of the door after Callie knocked. She didn't wait for another response before going inside and cautiously stand next to the empty chair. The woman on the other side was a regular looking middle aged fake blonde. Her face was perfectly forgettable—she could see her every day for years and still not recognize her on the street. "Please sit," she offered. Callie complied and handed the stamped sheet over. "Oh, I see, so you're the Torres girl," she said. Callie couldn't figure out what her tone suggested, but it wasn't offensive. "Well, Calliope, what—"

"Callie," she quickly interrupted. "No one calls me that."

She woman's nostrils flared as she smiled. Her face looked slightly contorted and it was obvious it had been a victim of quite a few botox injections. "Ok, _Callie_," she said. "What you're going to do around here is quite simple. You'll help the nurses and employees follow the patients' schedules and—"

"Isn't the right term guests?"

Her nostrils did the same thing as before. "I beg your pardon?"

"This is a home, not a hospital, right?"

"Yes, but most of our patients require medical care as well," she continued. Her tone clearly suggested she didn't like being interrupted—especially if it was to be corrected over her choice of vocabulary. "Anyway, you'll help set up the activities we hold, like bingo night, ballroom dancing, bridge games, gardening etc. and when we feel you're… prepared, you might be given other activities as well. Whenever you come in, you have to check in at the desk with Maureen, as well as check out when you go home. Any doubts?"

Callie shrugged. "Can't think of any."

"Good," for the first time, the woman's smile seemed real. She signed Callie's sheet and handed it back to her. "We all hope to help people like you find some clearance. Working with our patients can be very rewarding and we hope you make the best out of it."

Callie decided she didn't like the way the woman said "people like you", like she could be classified as a criminal and compared to all of them equally. But then again, she _was_ a criminal and arguing over vocabulary with the woman seemed to get on her nerves. Deciding she didn't want to start her first day with the wrong foot, Callie simply nodded and got up, leaving the room without another word.

It wasn't until she was outside, though, that she realized she didn't know where to go or what to do at the exact moment.

Should she look for Maureen, the desk girl whose friend Jenna had the nights off on Tuesdays?

Deciding she didn't like anyone's attitude at the place, Callie decided to look around for a little bit—if no one was going to give her a tour, then she'd give one to herself. The hallways were spacious and painted in a horrible tone of salmon that looked a cross between slightly faded and slightly dirty. The footers were beige and some of its paint was peeling. Callie fought the urge to sit on the wooden floor and spend the rest of the day playing with the paint—there was something extremely soothing in removing peeling paint from anything, Callie thought, even though her entire life she was reprimanded by her mother whenever she did so. In Callie's opinion, if the walls were peeling, then they needed to be painted again. Even though her mother spent a big deal of her time thinking of new ways to decorate the house—painting being one of those—the old colonial mansion had some infiltrations that Callie found endearing.

Reaching an intersection, Callie stopped and contemplated which hallway she should proceed in her little adventure. By the far end of her left side she could see an ample room that could be a lounge. It showed some colors—perhaps flowers—and wide open windows. However, despite fresh air sounding a great idea at the moment, the right side of the hallway carried in its air a beautiful sound that she hadn't heard in a long time. Curious and undeniably attracted to it, Callie had no control over her feet as she approached the source of the haughty sound. A gorgeous vintage Fischer Grand piano, somewhat beat up, being played by an old man with the whitest hair Callie had ever seen in her life. It almost looked a little blue when the intruding rays of sunshine hit the right waves through the partially closed window.

The music was brilliant, rhythmic, heartfelt and absolutely stand-offish—in the most wonderful way. The jazz rhythm filled her ears and whatever comprehensive thought she had before simply vanished from her mind completely—and all she could do was stand near the doorframe, absorbed by the song she knew well. She could almost hear the accompanying bass and drum as her head unconsciously bobbed to the rhythm.

"Like the song?" the man asked, his voice louder than the music that came from the touch of his fingers on the yellowing white keys of the instrument. Callie looked up startled, but noticed the man never even turned around or stopped playing to acknowledge her presence.

"Taylor is one of my favorites," she boldly replied, not caring to explain to the man why she stood uninvited in what seemed to be his bedroom.

"Well, I wish I could be like a bird in the sky," he sang, ignoring Callie's answer. His voice was deep, throaty and very raspy, but still very charming and held a small accent that gave the song a lot more personality. "How sweet it would be if I found I could fly—Oh, I'd soar to the sun and look down at the sea, then I'd sing coz I'd know how it feels to be free."

He sang and played the last few verses in a slow rhythm, much unlike the version of the song Callie was familiar with. He sang "I Wish I Knew How It Feels To Be Free", by Billy Taylor, but she was a lot more familiar with Nina Simone's version, where she sang her loud protest with one of her many idiosyncrasies.

Callie fought the urge to sing along to the stranger, and instead decided to just watch as he finished the song and turned around on the old piano bench to look back at her.

"Who are you?" He asked.

Callie shrugged. "Some girl."

He snorted. His eyes showed a small glint of inspiration that bugged Callie. "And what's some girl doing in my room?"

"I work here," she said. "Sort of. Community service."

"Better than prison."

"It's for school."

"No, it's not," he chuckled genially and they locked eyes.

"No, it's not," she admitted after a long pause. "Callie Torres." She didn't offer a hand.

"Ed Schroeder," he replied and Callie finally placed where his accent came from. He looked and sounded very German. "You know, it's not just some girl that claims to be a big Billy Taylor fan these days. At least not in this place. Especially not for community service."

"Almost any place, really," she shrugged. "It's not something people listen to anymore. And as for the community service part, well, I wish I knew how it feels to be free."

Ed Schroeder laughed a heartfelt laughter that sounded very European trashy to her. She loved it.

"I like you," he bluntly announced with a self-satisfied smile. "So, Callie, do you play?" He gestured to the piano behind him as he still sat with his back to it, facing Callie.

"Not anymore."

"How come?"

"Technical problems. Lack of equipment."

"Sold the piano for drugs?" He joked. The glint in his eyes returned.

"Yes, lots of them," she said harshly, meaning she didn't appreciate the joke. Regretting her tone a few seconds later, she admitted softly: "My parents sold my piano." When she noticed the man was about to speak again, she added more: "For drugs." Then smiled sheepishly. He laughed again.

"Why don't you play something for me, Callie?"

**Author's Note:** This idea came to me the other day when, leaving the bank, I passed by a big square where about 50 old men were hanging out. I was surprised to see the living and breathing cliché of old guys in front of me. All those people were just there, sitting around and playing freaking chess. I mean, seriously? The next days when I passed by the same square, there they were again. I thought to myself: how extremely boring does life have to be for someone to do that every day? I was extremely jealous.

Seriously, dude. Chess.


	2. It Ain't Necessarily So

Chapter 1 - It Ain't Necessarily So

Arizona Robins woke up in a jolt when her iPod changed songs—the upbeat trashy music in her ears was deafening compared to the slow melody from before. She tried to rub the sleep off of her eyes with both hands after ripping the loud device from her sensitive ears and looked out the window. Her bus seemed to be coming to a stop as it reached the foreign looking bus station. She waited patiently for all the other rushing passengers before leaving the bus with an impatient sigh. Later, when inside the cab that would take her to her new apartment, she realized with delight that nothing about the city seemed familiar at all.

Despite being lost on the narrow paved streets, it was clear to Arizona the cab driver was taking a longer route to her destination in order to get a bigger price for the trip, but she couldn't bring herself to care as she knew her jeans pocket held two 50 dollar bills. Money wasn't the issue—in fact, she wished it was.

The apartment was horrible. Dirty, smelly and small. Looked like no one had lived in it for at least 5 years. The floor was of what someday probably was beautiful wood, but now desperately needed maintenance, and the walls were completely dirty. She simply opened the dirty windows, fished for a cigarette from her pack, set up the inflatable mattress and started pumping. She held the lit cigarette in between her dry lips and used both hands to work on the mattress pump, not caring that the smoke was getting into her eyes and some ashes fell on the floor.

"There's no one to reprimand me, now, is there?" She thought to herself.

Indeed, there wasn't.

* * *

Unlike everything Callie would imagine, the next couple of weeks she spent going to Mayfield Home for the Elderly wasn't horrible. In fact, she would actually classify the time she spent in the ugly building as the highlight of her weeks. In between attending Foster Academy—the awful catholic private school Callie was forced to go by her parents—and finding places to go and things to do to fill her time as to stay as far from home as she could, the building full of invalid elderly was a breath of fresh air.

It was always uncertain what would happen during her days while trying to escape her parents' house—so uncertain that the events of one of those days led her to the sentenced community service she now practiced. Besides that, being in school or even interacting with anyone in the big campus was out of question for Callie. She found the students to be obnoxious, frivolous and plain boring, while the teachers were just wishy-washy. It seemed like no one in the school would go beyond what was asked of them—like they were all there just to fulfill a background role in someone else's life. They'd all laugh and talk around Callie, but no one said more than one meaningful sentence at a time.

However, Mayfield Home for the Elderly seemed to provide to Callie a stable routine with new, bucolic surprises every day. She learned something every time she was around someone different—like that the blond 80-something years old from the third floor claims to have met Rosalind Russell during Broadway's "Wonderful Town" while working as an assistant make-up artist. There was also the old guy who always wore bowties that matched his handkerchief from the fifth floor was crushing on the lady who cheated on bridge nights from the top floor. However, not only the great, sweet stories were a pleasant surprise for her; even the grandchildren stories seemed to provide her a comfortable stability that made the visits to the home seem each day less and less like a sentence.

Her favorite, though, was Ed Schroeder—the man she met on her first day. She remained inexorable before all the tales of the past and present of the people she quickly learned to be familiar with. Even though the stories enchanted and provided her of an easy feeling of relaxation, she did her best to be indifferent in front of those people—but Ed seemed to have a way around all her buttons and he usually pushed them well. They played the piano together for the first few days, and then slowly he seemed to be working on breaking her armor. He was conscientious, clever and his crooked smile was absurd—and she hated it.

And she loved it.

"I haven't spoken to my daughter in over twenty years," he said one day. "My father was a good man. A humble tailor. When war started, the führer called him in."

Ed played "Memories of You" on the piano while Callie quietly rummaged through his vinyl collection. He said she could borrow anything she wanted and so far she had picked Thelonious Monk, Ella Fitzgerald and Earl Hines—the three artists very familiar to her, but she found something extremely wonderful to be able to listen to them on old disks.

"I was only a kid back then," he continued. "My mom was jewish. He put us in a train and he said: 'you take care of your mom, now, ok?' I never saw him again. I was 5 when that happened."

Callie stopped looking at the disks and turned her head to look at the man, but he didn't pay attention to her. Instead, he abruptly stopped the song he was playing as if he had been doing it wrong the whole time and suddenly became impatient with his own inability to play it correctly. He looked at the albums on his bed that Callie had chosen from his collection and picked Thelonious Monk with a smile, then put it on the player. The music started. He closed his eyes and moved his head to the rhythm, which was slow and sensual.

He sighed. "Hear that?" he said. "Shadow Wilson. Now, this man knew his way with the drums." He kept moving his head, now along with his hands. "You know, me and my mother escaped Germany and moved around Europe, but everywhere seemed to be getting caught up in war. When the war ended, my father never came back."

"What happened to him?" Callie couldn't help the question as curiosity got the best of her. Ed seemed pleased that she finally showed interest in the story, but he suppressed his smile and sat on the piano bench, facing her.

"I have no idea," he replied. "I think they placed him in a concentration camp. Maybe he refused to kill. I think he refused to kill." He sighed. "Anyway, when the war ended I could barely remember his face. My mom was inconsolable, but we waited for him to come back for two years. That's when we came to the States—she had a cousin who married an American. I was 13 then, and America was something else…

We lived with my mom's cousin for a while, but then of course my mother went bonkers. She slept with her cousin's husband and she kicked us out."

"What a fluzzy."

"Then we moved to Harlem." He smiled his crooked grin. "I had never seen so many black people together… They were rascal, clever and just different from any kind of people I had ever met. Not that there are kinds of people—there were also bad people there and some were really dangerous, but it was there that I learned what jazz really is. They taught me all there was to know about jazz, bepop, the piano, the sax, the drums… I'd sneak out from my house when my mom was passed out from the booze and stay just outside Minton's Playhouse. I actually met Thelonious Monk once."

Callie's eyes widened. "Shut up."

"Yes," he chuckled. "In the late '40s Teddy Hill became Minton's manager and he hired Monk, Joe Guy, Nick Fenton and Kenny Clarke as house band. By then I was 14, maybe 15, and had my first girlfriend. Peggy Andersen. Those people had never seen someone as blond as me, of course, and I had never seen people as black as them. The girls were putty about me and so, heaven knows, was I."

Images of black men with Cheshire cat grin on their faces, nicely cut suits on their bodies and lots of swing on their feet was all Callie could see as she heard Ed's story. She pictured the somewhat lost white boy being taught by musicians that weren't good enough to play with the big guys, but that had jazz in their hearts—and she envied that image.

Ed then proceeded to tell her all details of his romance with the older girl who worked at Minton's Playhouse as waitress and snuck him in to listen to the music from under the stage.

"I couldn't see a damn thing, but man!" He exclaimed. "Did that band play some fine music…"

He then told her about how he once lit Thelonious Monk's cigarette when he couldn't find a box of matches and Ed happened to have one he stole from the playhouse for good luck.

"Peggy taught me all about Thelonious Monk, and Thelonious Monk taught me all about life with his songs. I was crazy about them; I was crazy about life." Callie paid close attention, trying as hard as she could to absorb every word and emotion—so when Ed's expression changed from nostalgic to sorrowful in a subtle manner she prepared herself.

"Peggy was brave," he continued. "She was a tough gal. Which is why when some man tried to rape her one night when she left work, she fought back. She fought back and she fought hard, but he was bigger and stronger. She died—and I was devastated."

Callie felt her stomach doing summersaults. "Did you love her?"

"She was my first," he said and they both chuckled. "She was my first everything, including first love."

"Seems like you got to start on love with a good person."

"The best person," he agreed. "I'm against violence, Callie. If losing my home and family to war didn't teach me that, then losing Peggy definitely did. So when my daughter decided to marry an arrogant marine 20 years ago I was furious. I met him and he was the most conceited bastard I'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. The timing wasn't the best, either. We were on cold war and they had just invented those damn nuclear bombs. Everybody was scared. I was scared. And then there was this man telling me that he believed and loved his country so much he was willing to kill people for it. Not only that, but this man wanted to marry my sweet Barbara and take her away from me. He did—and I never saw her again."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Callie, it's not rebellion that saves lives. It's not war, whether it's emotional or physical. Jazz saved my life," he said. "So… Why don't you play something for me, Callie?"

They locked eyes. Callie studied Ed's face with a neutral expression, as did he with expectation—and he could see he was losing her. The small interest she seemed to have showed during his life story seemed to be vanishing and slowly being replaced by her usual stand-offish expression. Just like that, she was closed off once more.

"I don't need saving," she said coolly, putting the Ella Fitzgerald record she held back on the shelf it came from. "It's community service," she said. "And I'm not on war."

Before Ed had the chance to say anything else, Callie turned her back and left the small bedroom, never looking back. Her words weren't louder than usual—in fact, she sounded as serious as she could; trying as hard as possible to hide her anger.

On her way out, she bumped hard into someone and her shoulder hurt for a second, but she didn't say anything and kept on her way. Her time was done for the day and she could use a nice hot bath.

"Watch it!" The person said loudly to her, but she ignored. The next word was mumbled. "Asshole."

The person was Arizona Robbins. With messy, long, blond waves on her hair, chapped lips and bags under her eyes, she now stood in front of the door from where Callie had just left. She thought for a second and considered going back to the street, hail a cab to the bus station and just go back to Florida. Maybe her parents were right, she mused. Maybe she was being overly dramatic.

Shrugging the thoughts off her head, Arizona knocked three times on the door in front of her and entertained herself with the peeling paint from the piece of wood on the small period of time it took before the person on the other side opened it. "Hi," she said quietly.

He looked surprised—and a little amazed. "Hi," he said back.

She cleaned her throat. "I'm Arizona," she said. Then added, "Robbins."

The man looked at her in a way that made her uncomfortable—like he was looking at her, but seeing someone else entirely. Like he thought she was someone else and was reliving all the good memories he had with that person, but she, on the other hand, had no idea who he was—and most importantly, no memories whatsoever.

"So," she started, a little unsure. "You're my grandfather, huh?"

**Author's Note:** What do you guys think of the chapter size? I'm not sure, but I plan on keeping most chapters about this size, but would anyone be upset if they happened to be longer? I'll try not to stall much, though. I just need to get some things straight first before the real story starts.


	3. Do you really want to rescue me

Chapter 2 – Do you really want to rescue me

When the old clock on the beige colored wall behind the Fischer grand piano hit exactly 5 pm, Callie coincidentally hit the first note to her favorite Ray Charles song. The firm, yet gentle flick of her slender fingers on the yellowing keys of the gorgeous wooden instrument created a sound as sweet and as heartfelt as that of the original song, if not more melodic—for there wasn't the company of any other instrument. Callie closed her eyes and it was just her and the song, so for the first time in over a year she ventured her dry throat to follow the chords.

"Don't let the sun catch you cryin'," she sang, stretching the syllables with the rhythm. Her voice was a little untrained after so long, but the lyrics were fresh in her tongue and mind. "Cryin' at my front door. You done daddy dirty, he sure don't want you no more…"

Then, just as it came, the urge to sing was gone—it felt as if her throat had closed and her mind went blank from all notes, chords and lyrics of the song.

A loud cacophonic sound echoed for a second around the room, startling the newcomer by the door.

"I'm sorry," she said. Callie turned around in surprise and saw a blond girl who was definitely not one of her coworkers—not that she cared for noticing all of them, but she knew none of them were blonde. "I—I think I got the wrong door. I'm looking for my, uh… Edgar—Mr. Schroeder?"

Callie watched as the blonde rambled. "You don't sound so sure," she said.

The girl took a deep breath. "I'm looking for Mr. Schroeder."

"He's out having dinner. You can find him down the hall, last door to your left."

The girl forced a small smile. "Thanks," she said before turning around. Callie forced her eyes shut, as if trying to quickly come to a difficult decision.

"Wait!" She called out. The blond girl turned around with a quizzical expression. "I—uh… Can you not tell him you saw me here?"

They examined each other with curiosity. In a last effort to look innocent, Callie looked up to meet her eyes.

Then something happened. Their eyes locked—like they really looked at each other for the first time—and the intensity of what she felt in big blue eyes caught Callie off guard. Lancinating malice. Malevolence. Spite. She was instantly curious. Her ears got warm and red and her stomach rolled in an uncomfortable sensation.

The girl held her breath, as surprised as Callie with the intensity of the eye lock. The previous topic was forgotten by both girls.

Callie opened her mouth, but no words came out. She couldn't talk, afraid to break the moment, so instead she observed with wonder as the girl's intense gaze slowly softened a few seconds after their eyes locked. Her shoulder muscles relaxed, her breath steadied. She blinked slowly.

Then, just like the moment Callie had a few minutes before with the song, she was gone—and her feet betrayed her when she tried to run after the girl. Instead, she simply sat still on the piano stool while the erratic feeling slowly faded as well as the sound of the girl's footsteps.

* * *

Arizona never considered herself the introspective kind of person. Growing up in a military family could be considered hard for most kids—and maybe it had been to her brother—but Arizona never really minded all the traveling and moving. She found it exciting, actually, for she never had trouble making new friends and living in different cultures. She thought every place had its personality and with every new house she saw a chance to get to know the place's personality. She enjoyed moving and maybe because of that she got bored with people easily.

She was a true heartbreaker, Arizona Robbins. In every new place, every new school, she appeared as the happy, smiling, captivating blonde who wanted to know everything about everyone. She asked people about their lives, their likes and dislikes, and they were so surprised by the questioning girl that they easily told her their darkest secrets and quickly fell in love with the great listener that she was.

Arizona never considered herself to be the introspective kind, but everyone realized at a point or another that all the questions and interest she showed towards people was out of pure boredom rather than real concern. Not meaning harm, she usually left an old place not realizing many hearts were left broken behind her—while Arizona herself would forget the part-time best friend "what's her face" in a matter of weeks.

So, as you can see, Arizona never considered herself to be the introspective kind for a good reason.

Every first look at a new place or person would give Arizona a unique sensation—and depending on the feeling she got on the first look, she'd build a new temporary life accordingly. But never in her short-yet-long 20 years of life had she ever felt what she did when first looking at the Latina on her grandfather's bedroom.

"Who is she?" She asked somewhat harshly after approaching the now familiar man that quietly ate his dinner. Ed looked up to meet venomous blue eyes.

"Who is who?"

"The girl!" She replied, exasperated. "In your bedroom. Playing the piano."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Callie's in my bedroom?"

Arizona didn't reply. They looked at each other for a long moment and just then the absurdity of her harshness hit her. Ed's big blue eyes—so much bluer than hers, like Timothy's—seemed to lull her into tired peace and after a pause much shorter than the previous, Arizona sighed and flopped down on the chair next to his.

Ed started eating again as Arizona's eyes got lost outside the nearest window that oversaw the garden.

"Here," Ed said. She looked back at the old man next to her and realized he was offering her half of his tuna sandwich. "Or you can have the apple. They're good this time of the year."

Still in silence, Arizona kept her eyes fixated on the offer. Ed's hand was strong, she noticed. His fingertips were somewhat calloused, but his nails were perfectly shaped and clean. The skin was extremely pale, with the exclusion of an occasional blue or green-ish vein that popped. She wondered if maybe the secret to life was there. Maybe the veins had a deciphered message that should be read in braille upon his skin.

His hand trembled a little under her sight and Arizona snapped out of her daze. "Arizona?" He looked concerned. "Is everything ok?"

She looked numbly at him.

"Is this about—?"

"You know what," she said brusquely, interrupting Ed midsentence. "We don't have to do this. This thing. You know—where I say something and you say something and we pretend we're family. Like you were the guy that gave me cookies when no one else was looking or dressed as Santa every Christmas or something like that. Tim and I stole cookies together and there was a stranger's lap to sit on every year in whatever mall my mom would take us to."

The old man's expression softened even more—something Arizona believed to not be possible. She found his ability to relax all of his face muscles in unison a great reason for jealousy and on the short amount of time that the two had met she caught herself wondering more often than not if there was anything on the man's mannerism that she could have possibly inherited. If there was anything at all, it certainly wasn't the easiness.

"Why did you come here, Arizona?"

It was a simple question, but the underlines held so much meaning that even though Arizona didn't want to answer it, she actually realized she didn't know how to answer exactly.

"I don't know how to answer exactly."

"I didn't—" Ed started, but once again the blonde interrupted him midsentence. This time, however, she left no words behind her. Instead, Arizona simply got up and left the table, leaving a surprised old man still sitting on the chair next to the one she occupied.

Alone, Ed wondered if interrupting and leaving old men behind was a thing for young girls that age. He seemed to be left alone quite a few times lately—if not by the blonde bombshell, then by a rather stoic Latina.

* * *

Despite it still being early October and Callie's classes having just started a little over a month ago at Foster Academy, the girl often caught herself wishing for time to go by faster. It was her last year at the horrible school and even though most students tried to enjoy every minute of it with all they had, Callie couldn't care less for what was supposed to be the wonderful and unforgettable best years of her life. Instead, she quietly counted the days to her 18th birthday and did her best to finish school with the best grades she could get. The sentenced community service took a lot of the free time she would usually designate to her home studies—and for that she congratulated the person responsible for the awfully timed setback in her school career.

Callie needed to graduate—even more so than the regular struggling teenager on their senior year. Most people needed it to get to their dream college or whatever other superior education plan they had for themselves, but Callie needed it for survival.

"Well played, dad," she mumbled to herself while quietly rummaging through delayed homework on the wooden study desk in her bedroom on number 4, Elm Street. Having spent the last two hours trying to understand what had seemed incredibly easy during class, Callie found herself close to tears of frustration. She was stuck on the same exercise for over ten minutes—and even though calculus was never her favorite subject, she always knew at least how to start on everything she had ever done before. However, before it wasn't important—at least not as it was now.

"Calliope," her dad's voice came from the door. Shutting her eyes forcefully, Callie took a deep breath and tried to steady her hand, which had started trembling the second the man's raspy voice was heard.

"Not now, dad," she warned her father without turning to face him.

He sighed, tired. "Then when, Calliope?" The condescending tone in his voice was enough to push Callie to the edge, but she refused to break.

"Any time, dad," she said slowly. "Only not now."

Even though without an obvious reason to Mr. Torres, even he could sense that she was extremely impatient.

He tried a different approach. "Are you studying?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer," she mumbled. While normally Mr. Torres would be quick to educate his daughter on manners, it seemed inappropriate for some reason on the quick few seconds he took to comprehend her answer. What he didn't say out loud was because he couldn't bring himself to scold his daughter because he didn't feel like she was his daughter anymore—in some level, they were strangers.

It had started less than a year ago and it seemed absurd for Carlos that his family of erstwhile notorious union now seemed to be up shit creek without a paddle. Carlos Torres was a man of convictions, and when life handed him the worst hands imaginable, all he had was them. So far, this was the first time they failed him in finding a solution to a problem—and strangely, the first time it actually mattered whether he found a solution.

Carlos had been poor and rich, young and now old, and he had loved and hated with and without guilt, but never in his life had he ever felt so betrayed and filled with rage than when he found his older daughter to be gay. Never had he ever felt like such a complete and utter failure. For a man who could turn dust to gold and coal to diamond with his bare hands that calloused fingers from years ago proved to be absolutely lofty, finding himself in such a situation caused him an offensive sudden lack of faith he had never experienced in his life—for previous to being a hardworking man, he was a man who loved his family above everything else. The lancinating effort he put into loving the young girl that now had nothing but venomous words towards him proved themselves to be incongruous.

However, it wasn't so quickly that Carlos found himself in such a desperate state of despair. Ever the indulgent man he was, his first reflex was trying to fix things with his own hands like very much anything else that had ever gone wrong in his life. Of course, always cautious with his decisions, he was well aware that he may have been jumping the gun by not seeking outside help, but how could he let anyone else who wasn't a part of his most intimate circle know about his biggest, most frustrating failure?

His concerns were obviously proven right when, after a series of calculated—although now he knew were misplaced—efforts from his part to help fix his daughter were not well received by the young girl—the bipolar coaster in which they now loved was top notch proof—and the mistakes eventually took their toll not only on their unique father-daughter relationship, but also on how the other two Torres saw him as the head of the family. His other daughter was disappointed and his wife started to wonder if he was really reliable enough.

He sighed deeply, wondering if a solution to all this actually existed, for he was sure he had tried everything according to the book. "What happened to us, Calliope?" He asked. "Why do you try so hard to make me give up on you?"

His pondering wasn't supposed to be actually spoken, or at least not in the way in which it was said, but once the words left his mouth he felt somewhat relieved—like maybe, this time, he would actually get an answer.

"You gave up on me the moment you threw me out on queer street, dad," she sighed too. They were both entirely worn-out from having the same argument continuously without reaching a mutual agreement, but individually Callie felt like there was absolutely no solution to their problem whatsoever. While her father did everything he could to fix a problem as soon as he spotted it, Callie believed there really wasn't any problem to begin with—and that was the whole solution to their miscommunication. She stood inexorable to her convictions until her father saw no other option other than giving up on her entirely—at least that was how she saw it. Now she realized that bringing random girls over to their house probably wasn't the best approach imaginable, but to her a man kicking his own daughter out didn't take the cake either.

"You left me no other choice," he said once again. It seemed to Callie that her leaving him no other choice was the only excuse her father had for his dubious behavior.

"Quite frankly, dad, this excuse is jaded already."

"I only try to live life according to what God says," he fired back, now a little flustered. Callie and everyone else knew Carlos Torres was not a man to call out the Lord's name in vain, so she knew that if he did, it was because he believed the matter not to be magniloquent and he was actually just trying to subtly ask for His help.

"You don't live according to what God says, dad, you live according to what the bible says." Despite the argument getting a little heated, Callie indulged gladly in letting it be one-sided as her words were calm and normally spoken rather than rushed or loud.

"The bible is a transcript of His truth!" Carlos all but shouted. However, Callie remained stoic.

"The bible is a book, dad," she said. Her condescending tone drove Carlos to the edge. "Written by men, not God." Callie's words weren't a reflection of what she was raised to believe, but she found more truth in her reasoning than in what fuddy-duddy old men taught her. She found some of the bible's sayings and stories to be dubious and a bad representation of whatever God wanted to say—instead, she believed He maybe, like her, was somewhat of an artist and the whole truth to the world was in His art: His entire creation. She thought the message was pretty clear if one would just look around for a second and try to accept some things as they were.

Carlos clearly disagreed as the scary vain on his forehead seemed extensively more prominent than it did only a few minutes previous to the beginning of the argument. "IT'S AN ABOMINATION," he shouted. Carlos snapped at her seemingly indifference towards the conversation he wished to have. His unusual outburst finally sent Callie over the edge as she rapidly turned around to face him—and her face surprised the man greatly, for he had never seen his daughter's eyes so full of rage. Her jaw was locked so forcefully it pressed against the skin of her cheeks and her nostrils flared so widely it was amazing that she was actually holding her breath. Mr. Torres—Carlos—was so taken aback by the killer look on the usual calm face that his hard expression quickly shifted to a surprised one literally in the blink of his eyes.

"I said… Not. Now. Dad." Her words were somewhat slurred and mumbled, but very clear.

Still surprised, Carlos didn't show any reaction other than the same look he still had on his face. Deciding she didn't want to argue, Callie got up from her chair, took her purse from the hanger near the bed and squeezed past her father on her way out. Before she could even think twice about her decision, Callie already had her cell phone pressed to her ear as a familiar unsure voice picked up on the other end. "Hey, Cal," the deep voice said. His tone was careful.

"How fast can you get to New Granada?"

* * *

Even though the trip from Sacramento to Mark's hometown usually took three hours by car, the boy managed to pull over by the bar where Callie waited for him in only two. He noticed his tank now desperately needed a refill, but he didn't care as he saw the familiar face of his best friend with whom he thought he had managed to screw up. Mark noticed her face was slightly thinner, her hair slightly longer and her clothes slightly neater.

"Hi," he nodded towards her before locking the old car. She quickly got up from the curb where she sat and a small smile tugged on the left end of her mouth.

"Hi back at ya," she closed the distance between the two of them and wrapped her arms around his neck. Mark didn't hesitate before nesting her in his arms and in less than two seconds all the uncertainty he carried on his features dissipated. Without any more words, they went inside the brick colored building by the sidewalk and sat on stools next to each other at the counter. The bartender pretended he didn't know their IDs were fake. The town was too small for him to deny costumers—especially on a Wednesday night and especially after the already tipsy Latina had already spent over sixty dollars on that particularly uneventful evening.

"How's college, frat boy?" Callie asked with a genuine smile. Mark tensed. College is great, he thought. He loved college—but the only reason why he had a chance to love it was because of Callie and he knew it.

Mark and Callie became friends under unusual circumstances. While the way they met was a regular hook up during a meaningless party, they strangely connected in a non-sexual way that quickly made the two become best friends. While everyone in their wide circle of acquaintances saw Mark as a screw up, Callie dismissed any judgments and they soon did everything together. However, despite Callie ignoring the way everyone saw Mark, it didn't change the fact that he was, in fact, as everyone put it, a screw up.

"Cal—"

"No, Mark," she interrupted him. "I mean it. How's college?"

He sighed. "It's perfect," he said. Then added, "I wish you were there".

"I'm not going to college."

He nearly choked on his beer. "What?"

"I'm not going to college," she repeated. "I'm glad you're enjoying it. I knew you would. It's why I did what I did for you, but I'm not going. I'm going to finish high school—then I'll take everything that's rightfully mine."

Realization dawned Mark. "Oh, no, Cal…"

"It's not stealing if it's all technically mine, Mark," she said defensively. "I'm gonna do to them what they did to me. They deserve it."

Mark sighed. He didn't want to argue—so instead he bit his lip and looked at her. "Well, I'm here for you. For anything you need."

He didn't agree with her, but wondered if he—or anyone, really—could actually blame the bitter young woman. When Callie turned 16, nearly two years ago, her father's business was going through a rough patch. Carlos Torres was a proud man who didn't ask for help—so when he turned to his older daughter for it, Callie was eager to do what was asked of her. It wasn't usual for her to have a chance to help, so when the chance popped she did everything, no questions asked.

Her parents legally emancipated her and all the family's business' property was transferred to her name. Even though she wanted to help more, her parents reassured her that what she had already done was more than enough. They promised to take care of her name and the subject was never mentioned again. After a while the girl even forgot about all of it, until she found herself in a desperate situation that required desperate measures.

Thrown out from her own house, Callie jumped from couch to couch and sometimes floor to floor with nothing more than a bag of clothes, a sleeping bag and Mark's ever-lasting support. He, too, knew a thing or two about being thrown out on the gutter and helped her in any way he could—sometimes, when the girl couldn't find where to sleep, he'd park his old car on the far end of a nearby park, away from the homeless, drug addicts and prostitutes, and the two of them would find a comfortable enough position to sleep in it. Usually they pushed the back of the two front seats all the way down so they could look at the stars and hold each other's hand over the hand brake.

Jobs were scarce at the small city and the little money Callie made from serving coffee and food in a diner nearly outside the city frequented mostly by passersby and truck drivers proved to be insufficient and mostly frustrating. Everyone in the city knew her parents and embarrassedly turned their faces whenever they saw her—she knew it was as if she never even existed, for her parents apparently acted as though it was true. With nothing left holding her back, she decided to escape once she gathered enough money and Mark found himself in the same situation as ever since the age of 13 he lived mostly by himself—his mother was a bitter young woman who looked 20 years older than her real age, trying to compensate the fact that she was unloved by her ex-husband with alcohol and disgusting men who often hit Mark when he tried to stand up to his undeserving mother.

The pair of youngsters drew a carefully planned route on an old map they found on the trailer Mark sometimes shared with his mother and soon the only real issue was money. It didn't surprise Callie at all when the boy said he "knew a guy" and the rest was pretty much history as, obviously, their plan was unsuccessful and they were caught on their devious actions. The only turning point to the story was when Mark—a year older than Callie—found out he had actually gotten into one of the colleges he had applied after the girl's insistence. That was when Callie took the fall for the two of them while Mark stood shamefully without words.

It wasn't until the girl was designated a state lawyer that she found out exactly on what she was missing out: all her family's possessions still remained under her name and legally it all belonged to her. Now, only three months after, she legally wanted it all back—but legally she was a criminal.

"You know I can send my mom to jail?" Callie asked with a cynical chuckle. Mark's left eyebrow rose. "She forges my signature for everything. Can you picture my mom in jail?"

Mark laughed out loud and the girl soon joined him.

"You know, I have a theory," she said.

"Shoot."

"There are two kinds of people—the ones who sit on stools and the ones who sit on chairs in bars. We're stools people. We're the kind that goes to jail occasionally for drug possession or breaking and entering. I think we're occasional criminals, but not the bad kind. And then there are chair people. They look so happy and they have a bunch of friends to sit on the table with them. They come from one-halves of suburban shoeboxes as houses and they think Bukowski is vulgar."

"They do, don't they?" Mark chuckled. "What they don't realize, though, is that the only thing that fits in half a shoebox is one shoe."

"Exactly," she nodded her head a little drunkenly before depositing her glass on the counter. "This criminal needs to use the loo."

"No bathroom name should rhyme with a verb that indicates an action that takes place on said place!"

"Only table people crap on bar's bathrooms."

"I thought they were constipated."

"I thought so, too," she said, and then pondered for a couple of seconds. "You should write your graduation thesis on that."

"You should go to college."

"And you shouldn't smoke so much," she said in a conclusive tone before sticking her entire cigarette pack inside Mark's mouth. He chuckled and the two got up; Callie lightly stumbling and nearly knocking her stool over. "Oops-a-daisy," she giggled and he laughed louder while observing her retreating figure as she lightly stumbled and nearly tripped on her own feet. Her hair was all over the place, her eye make up slightly blurred and her lipstick completely gone by now—but to Mark she had never looked so gracious.

Brushing off the sudden swell of love towards his friend, Mark got up from his stool as well and silently stepped outside of the bar with one of the red filtered cigarettes already in between his dry lips.

Unaware of her friend's purest thoughts towards her, Callie felt anything but gracious as she, still inside the bar, missed the bathroom's doorknob with her left hand. It made her want to giggle for a second, but deep down she felt pathetic for the state in which she found herself after only a little over two hours of drinking—heavy drinking, but only two hours nonetheless.

And then, to her utmost surprise, once inside the bathroom the sight before her instantly sobered her up. She stood up straight and watched the scene in curiosity. Against the wall directly opposite to the door, the blonde she had seen three days ago by Edgar Schroeder's bedroom at Mayfield who owned the iciest blue eyes she had ever seen. However, right now, the intimidating orbs remained covered by her eyelids as she limply tilted her head to one side in order to give better access to her neck for someone else's mouth. A red-haired girl whose face Callie couldn't see, but who owned a pretty spectacular ass in her opinion, fiercely gripped the blonde's curves with lascivious hands while grinding against her entire body.

Callie watched the heavy make out session in front of her with a heavy weight in her stomach that only later she would acknowledge—and she remained like that for a few more seconds that felt like forever, until she was brought out of her daze by the bitter eyes that had endeared her not too many days ago.

Once again, their eyes locked and Callie pursed her lips together—and meanwhile, the red-haired girl continued her work completely unaware of the unspoken communication that happened just under her. Neither girl knew what exactly was being told or heard by the shared look, but it felt as if they had reached a common understanding in something—something they didn't quite know how to explain, but also something that they knew was of extreme importance.

They maintained the eye lock for some more time before Callie spun on her heels and left the bathroom and the bar altogether, not caring to explain to Mark what had happened.

Still inside the bathroom, Arizona freed herself from a confused stranger with a harsh push and locked herself in one of the cabins before throwing up all the contents in her stomach. Then, to her surprise, for the first time in over a year, she was able to shed tears she didn't know took so much energy to hold back—and she knew that somehow she would be able to sleep that night.

* * *

**A/N:** TEN FREAKING PAGES, BITCHES!

**A/N2:** I don't know if anyone's noticed this about this story, but it holds lots and lots of references—and by lots I mean an absurd amount of references you wouldn't even believe. Sometimes it's just a word or expression or a name, but plenty of what seems interesting in this story is a reference to something much better.

Like the fictional city of New Granada—its name was taken from the movie _Over the Edge_ (1979—Jonathan Kaplan). Or Callie's street name, Elm Street, that I took from _Dogville_ (2003—Lars Von Trier). And of course Ed's last name "Schroeder" came from the cuteness that is the character Schroeder from the _Peanuts_ (1950—Charles M. Schulz) strips. Not only names, though, I also take references from lines I like from other works—like when Callie and Ed meet and she says she's "some girl"; that's actually a line from the character Alice Ayres/Jane Jones (Natalie Portman) in _Closer_ (2004—Mike Nichols).

Pretty much everything good comes from something else and I just link them, but I felt like I was stealing all those stuff because I never mentioned anything crediting them, so I was wondering if you guys want me to list all the references at the end of every chapter.

Other than those cited, other reference are the name Foster Academy, the school Callie attends, which was taken from Nancy Garden's novel _Annie On My Mind_ (1982) and last chapter's title "It Ain't Necessarily So", a song from the play _Porgy & Bess_ (1935—DuBose Heyward; Dorothy Heyward), music by George Gershwin and lyrics by Ira Gershwin. This chapter's title is from the song "Do You Really Want To Rescue Me, Part 1", recorded by Elsie Mae, but I really don't know who wrote its lyrics/music. Oh yeah, and the new cover art is by French artist Yves Budin.

**A/N3:** I'm just gonna go ahead and change the story's rating to **M** because apparently is painting the town red and took out one of my stories from the website because apparently it was offensive or whatever—and from what I hear, they're seriously engaging in a take-out spree and everyone's getting their stories busted or something.


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